Cold War
by Prophet-Domino
Summary: Cold War Britain; conspiracy, mistrust and suspicion are planted deep in the roots of society. Enter The Camelot Operatives: once MI6's finest, now rogue agents who need to be removed from the equation. Part 3 of 'Guardians of the Realm', and a different take on it from the other two. One-shot for now, but I'll come back to it after I've finished the rest.


The MI6 headquarters was colder than the Siberian midwinter, and about as welcoming.

Albeit, it was supposed to be emotionless, and almost inhuman, in its well-oiled functioning, but that didn't mean that it was allowed to be so damned cold, as if it was sucking the soul out of him, brutishly ugly concrete all unfeeling, rigid slabs and the crude non-colour grey. Hell, his typewriter had more personality than this place.

He was slouched in the leather chair outside the office, as pristine as the day it had come out of the showroom, awkwardly fidgeting to pass the time; he didn't like to be kept waiting. Whoever was behind those doors was serpentine clever in their power games. That's what this was about; imposing power over him, proving their time was more important than his. Admittedly, it was childish, but it worked. There weren't any clocks in this place, and he'd been stripped of anything that could have been used to tell the time, but he'd reckoned that it had been around thirty-five minutes, more or less. His timing was pretty good. It had to be when you dealt in death for a living.

Some bumbling PA, stacks of papers filling his arms, red tie caught up in his jacket pocket, rushed over. 'Miss LeFay will see you now.'

Giving the skinny kid a jerky nod of acknowledgement, he rose from where he was seated, feeling the slight give of the cushion as he shifted his weight, and followed him into the room, clocking the thickness of the door as he passed. At least eight inches, and most likely reinforced steel- so at odds to the plush office he found himself in.

It was stylish, in that 'minimalist-CEO even though I'm worth more than your entire family' sort of fashion, glass and monochrome and titanium that somehow seemed to convey even more apathy and haughty, closed-off vibes than the concreted outside.

'Nice place.' He didn't know if he was being sincere or not.

'Have you dispensed with the pleasantries? I do not wish to be smothered. You are here to talk business.'

So that was Miss LeFay. Dark hair piled up on top of her head like the crown of some fantasy queen, figure-hugging, slinky black dress, packing cleavage that could fell a man at twenty yards. Jealous emerald eyes that reeked of mistrust and conspiracy met his, and a glare so accusatory that if it had concussive force would have punched a hole through the wall quite a while ago, stared him down, scrutinising for weakness like he was some sort of small animal, minute and fearful. Yup, these power games definitely worked, like it or not.

She paused to look out of the window, staring at the people underneath her, frantically scurrying insects on the monotonous tarmac below, the frankly beautiful mediocrity of London's bustling streets. 'Sit.' It was a harsh voice, one used to barking commands at lesser beings, full of barely-hidden, embittered rage.

He sat.

'I assume you are aware of why you are here?' Her tone was nonchalant.

'Enlighten me.'

'These five men. They need to be eliminated.' She passed five files over the sleek granite of the desk, beige folders stamped in scarlet ink, the intimidating title of **[THE CAMELOT OPERATIVES]** shouting out in the way that only capitalised, blood-inked text can, aggressive, demanding attention like a wailing nuclear siren blaring out into the night.

Leon:

Location: Earl's Court road, London.

'Am I at liberty to ask why?' It was risky, asking in such a straightforward manner, but he figured that trying to pry would be pointless with this shadowy ice-queen, indomitable as she was, hunched and brooding into her dark throne, bitter and resentful and totally untouchable. 'These men practically single-handedly averted nuclear war, mutually assured destruction and all that malarkey.'

'They know too much. The five of them have intel amongst them that could ruin this nation.'

Elyan:

Location: Rogue. West Berlin.

'So then why not send one of your own men to do your dirty work?'

'We have a traitor. Of course, every secret service has a traitor- the CIA and ASIS are more sleeper agents than honest men. Not that we're honest men.' She paused for a second, as if trying to rein in the anger that she pretended didn't plague her conscience. 'They are calling themselves Merlin, and are feeding these operatives the secrets of this organisation that we would rather that the world was kept in the dark about.'

Gwaine:

Location: Rogue, currently unknown. Last seen escaping East Berlin.

He shrugged. 'Makes sense.' Perusing the files, he pulled out the identification papers. 'You've got a thing for Arthurian codenames?'

'They fitted at the time.' LeFay got up from the chair, running a thin finger along the top, as if tracing a line across a throat that only she could see. It was oddly fascinating, in a morbid sort of way. 'They were once the pride of this organisation. Now, they've defected and need to be apprehended.'

Percival:

Location: St. Petersburg, USSR.

'For all we know, these men have enough classified dirt on this country to reduce this island to nuclear slag floating in a sea that is more radioactive fallout than water by this time tomorrow. As per the Phoenix protocol, they are to be erased from the record. You're not a total imbecile; I trust you understand.'

Lancelot:

Location: The White House, Washington D.C., United States.

_Hang on-_

'You have a man inside the White House?' He tried not to sound impressed. It was only to be expected: some clandestine agency, secrets upon lies upon secrets, and to top it all, with more trust issues than a brainwashed science experiment like he'd heard the Russians were carrying out.

'_Everyone_ has a man inside the white house. Even the French have one.'

'Damn. So you don't trust Nixon?'

'Nobody trusts Nixon- not even himself.'

'Figures.' He returned to the files. 'So what's to stop you pulling the trigger on me?'

'Nothing. We will pay your fee, and then you will disappear.' It was a flippant statement, but he heard the power behind it, building like tension in a spring, taut, ready to snap at any given moment. Her eyebrows were arched, devious, calculating eyes staring back at him, unblinking, definite. 'And if you even think about breathing a word of this to man or beast, or godforbid the media, then the back of your skull will have a bullet hole blasted through it faster than you can say 'The Sunday Telegraph.' Do I make myself clear?'

'Crystal.'

'Thank you for your time. I do hope this will be the last time we convene.'

'Mutual. Leave it to me.'

'Anything else?'

'Yeah, actually. So do I get some fancy double-oh-seven spy codename to make you feel important?'

'Mordred will suffice, if you wish. Apt, I suppose.'

'Well ain't that fitting.'

~.*.~


End file.
